


you don't get to me, you just get me

by mayerwien



Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Partners to Lovers, Platonic Life Partners, Police, Post-Canon, i literally Do Not Know how to tag this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-03
Updated: 2016-08-03
Packaged: 2018-07-29 02:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7666264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayerwien/pseuds/mayerwien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nick takes to singing when he comes in every morning—as loud as possible, the most obnoxious songs he can think of. Once, he belts out the entire first act of 'Sweeney Tod: The Demon Groomer of Fleet Street' before McHorn finally bellows across the room for him to shut his pie-hole before he gores him. (Shame; if Nick does say so himself, he made a highly riveting Benjamin Barker. He dropped to his knees and stared lovingly at his letter opener and everything.)<br/>“Too bad,” Judy says, as she pads by with an evidence baggie filled with something green and unidentifiable. “I was looking forward to the part where your throat gets slit and you die.” </p><p>(or, Judy keeps trying to fix Nick’s life, and Nick keeps trying to get on Judy’s nerves, and neither of them can figure out why.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	you don't get to me, you just get me

**Author's Note:**

> While Googling the phrase “how sticky is molasses”, I ended up stumbling across the story of the Boston Molasses Disaster. Not fun guys, treacle is savage

_1\. taking turns_

It’s a given that Nick is the good cop and Judy is the bad cop.

For everything else they argue about—whose turn it is to file the report, who stole whose stapler, what movie they’re going to see after they punch out later—somehow they never question this. Whenever they’ve got a particularly stubborn suspect cuffed to the table in the interrogation room, Judy enters first, her face wiped clean of expression. Most of the animals they get in there are bigger than she is, so she has to stand on the other chair just to meet their eyes.

Usually they laugh, at first. _Look at the bunny cop, acting all big and tough._ Judy’s learned by now not to let it ruffle her feathers. (Metaphorical feathers, obviously.) She merely starts off the way she always does—speaking in a low voice, calmly informing them that she already knows what they’ve done, and they would do well to simply cooperate. If the suspect is smart—as they quite often are—they will quickly realize that Officer Judy Hopps is frightening not because she is loud or violent, but because she never shows all her cards. Just lays down a choice few, one at a time, while maintaining a precisely controlled smile.

And then she leaves, letting the door swing slowly shut behind her, and they let the suspect sweat it out awhile before it’s Nick’s turn. He saunters in with his paws in his pockets, almost like he’s a civilian who’s just gotten lost on his way to the bathroom, and settles himself easily in the other seat. He calls the suspect by their first name. He offers them a glass of water, or something from the vending machine. On the other side of the two-way mirror, Judy watches a whole range of emotions parade across the suspect’s face— _oh this guy seems nice wait shit can I trust him he’s a fox wait shit WAIT he’s a fox on the side of the LAW what does this_ MEAN—and leans back, just another spectator at the magic show.

Unchecked, Nick’s smooth talk can last for hours. He goes on and on, asking about the suspect’s neighborhood, who their friends are—and then sharing anecdotes from his own criminal days, many of them so outrageous there’s a betting pool among the officers as to which ones are real and which ones are made up. Also, he never stops _grinning._ And in the end, the amateur forger or high-school-age dealer or whoever it is this time finally relents, or lets something slip. Judy’s fairly sure that more than one criminal’s signed a confession just to get Nick to shut up.

She is so proud of him.

To celebrate Nick’s three-month anniversary of being on the force, Judy gives him a membership card for the salad bar the next block over (berries being about the healthiest thing Nick consumes) and a completely filled-out tax return form. He laughs and pretends to eat the coupon, saying it probably tastes better than the salad, but she sees him sign the form and slip it into his outbox later when he thinks no one’s looking.

“Hopps and Wilde,” Judy whispers to him sometimes out of the corner of her mouth, and always Nick stacks his fist on top of hers and whispers back, “Wilde and Hopps.”

Then Judy will say “Alphabetical,” and Nick will retort, “Doesn’t sound as good,” and they’ll keep going back and forth, just another of their arguments-that-aren’t-really, that they like to keep going just because.

It’s a shame they can never go undercover, what with being so recognizable to the general public and all. They’d probably be _awesome_ at it.

 

\--

 

 _2._ _messing around_

It’s normal for partners to have work stations next to each other, but Judy likes to act like it’s the end of the world. She does it good-naturedly, however, groaning and slumping across the desk they share. (What would be a normal-sized desk for any other officer is Olympic-sized for the two of them; at least the budget this year allowed for two smaller chairs.) “I can’t believe they stuck me with the biggest idiot on the force,” she’ll say, and Nick will reply lazily, while still wearing the binder clip on his top lip like a mustache, “That statement is a fallacy, madam, which you very well know, being the cop who specifically _requested_ said idiot. And furthermore, I’m your _favorite_ idiot, and don’t you dare deny it.”

Nick doesn’t decide to properly add _‘trying to piss Carrots off’_ to his daily agenda until a few weeks in. It starts with middle-school stuff—moving her chair back a couple of inches when she gets out of it, using her head as an elbow rest while they’re standing at attention. At first the reactions range from “What the _hell”_ to “You are such a _child,”_ and then fall more along the lines of “I have work to do, Officer Wilde, if you don’t mind.” And then, nothing at all. Like she’s so cool she can’t even be bothered to roll her eyes at him.

Honestly, the job is good, and Nick likes being on the right side of the law for once in his life. Sure, he got some suspicious looks and refusals-to-comply from cops and civilians alike when he first started—apparently a bunny cop makes for a good laugh, but a _fox_ cop, now, could he be trusted not to still have three of his four paws in not-entirely-legal pies?—but he just let it roll off his back, like water off an otter’s. (Judy was always more upset by it than he was, because he’s her _partner,_ dammit, and if they don’t trust him then they don’t trust her _or_ the ZPD. “World’s bigger than a few spiteful people, sweetie,” Nick’s had to remind her, watching her pace back and forth so angrily she threatened to scorch a line in the floor. “Didn’t you teach me that?”) But apart from that and a couple of threatening letters that honestly weren’t very threatening, he’s been doing just fine as a keeper of the peace.

The point is, Nick doesn’t really _mean_ to be so disruptive at work, as entertaining as it is to see Chief Bogo’s nostrils expand whenever he yells “STOP DICKING AROUND, WILDE, THIS IS A POLICE STATION, IF I WANTED TO SEE ANTICS LIKE YOURS I’D GO WATCH THE PONIES AT THE CIRCUS.” It’s just the fact that Judy’s so _serious_ about it all that riles him up. So focused and always-does-her-research dependable. She’s grown a lot since he first met her; still with the same strong sense of justice, but not so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (a metaphor, _probably?)_ and not so sensitive and led by her emotions anymore. Sailing paper planes at her head and switching her file folders around isn’t going to cut it.

So Nick takes to singing when he comes in every morning—as loud as possible, the most obnoxious songs he can think of. Commercial jingles, operas in his own made-up Italian, the latest Bun Direction hit because he knows she hates them—without getting so much as a peep out of her. Once, he belts out the entire first act of _Sweeney Tod: The Demon Groomer of Fleet Street_ before McHorn finally bellows across the room for him to shut his pie-hole before he gores him. (Shame; if Nick does say so himself, he made a highly riveting Benjamin Barker. He dropped to his knees and stared lovingly at his letter opener and everything.)

“Too bad,” Judy says, as she pads by with an evidence baggie filled with something green and unidentifiable. “I was looking forward to the part where your throat gets slit and you die.”

Nick thinks he’s hit upon the winning prank when he brings her coffee from a different shop one morning. He can tell Judy’s had a bad start to the day; her fur isn’t combed, and her tie is loose. There’s some part of him that vaguely wants to redo the knot, but he blinks the thought away before it can form properly.

“Here you go, Twitch,” he says, setting the cup down next to her intray and settling against the edge of the desk with his own. Nick takes his coffee with no cream, but approximately half the canister of sugar each time.

“Lifesaver.” Judy reaches over and takes the cappuccino, pressing the cup to her face and nuzzling it a little. “Mmm, come to Mama.”

“What, no coffee for me?” Delgato pouts as he passes on his way to the archive room.

“When _you_ start bringing in three notorious cat burglars a week, kitten, I’ll get you all the coffee you want,” Nick responds without missing a beat.

“I already told you, don’t call me KITTEN,” Delgato yells over his shoulder, throwing his paws in the air.

By now, Judy has taken the lid off her coffee cup and is drowning her face in the contents. “This is _good,”_ she says, taking another sip and sighing. “What is it?”

 _Here we go._ “Artisan coffee,” Nick replies innocently. “Civet-made.”

Judy absently hums her acknowledgment, swiveling around to rifle through a stack of folders.

“You do know how civets _make_ their coffee, right?” Nick asks pointedly. He props his chin up with his elbow and waits for it to sink in, for the inevitable spit-take that will follow and for her to finally, _finally_ blow up at him.

Judy stops, cup still in her paw. She turns around slowly and stares him right in the eye. She takes a long, long, drink, and then, smiling and delicately licking her lips, puts the cup down on the table between them, empty.

“Eat shit,” she says, sweet as pie, and he throws his head back and laughs.

“Okay, okay.” Nick holds his paws up in defeat. “But just for semantics’ sake, we’re drinking it, not eating it.”

Back at his desk, Delgato is staring at the two of them, a mixture of confusion and disgust on his face. "I've changed my mind," he says. "I _never_ want you to bring me coffee."

It takes Nick several more weeks before he realizes that he’s not doing any of this to _bother_ her, exactly—it’s more that he wants to get her attention. Just _why_ he wants to get her attention so badly, when he spends more time with her than with any other living animal—that takes a little longer.

 

\--

 

 _3._ _moving in_

“Where did you even live, before this?” Judy asks, as she’s helping Nick bring his cardboard boxes up the stairs of the Grand Pangolin Arms (he only has _two boxes,_ for heaven’s sake, and the one she’s carrying isn’t even heavy).

Ahead of her, Nick shrugs. “Sometimes in an empty lot. Sometimes in the van with Finn. Sometimes on a chair in the laundromat. Wherever was convenient at the time. I stayed mobile.” He rounds the stairs onto the second-floor landing, shifting his cargo onto his shoulder and flicking his tail back with his foot. “And don’t make that face.”

“What face? You can’t even see my face.” Judy leaps up the last three steps to keep up with Nick.

“I don’t need to be looking at you to know you’re making that face that you do whenever you feel sorry for me.” Nick looks down at his new room key, then glances up and down the hallway, trying to figure out which way the numbers go. “Four-oh-three…” Finding the right door, he kicks it open, spitting at the faint cloud of dust that hits him in the face.

The room is similar to Judy’s, save for the large water stain on the ceiling and the window that faces the back alley instead of the street. Nick stands in the center of the floor, one paw on his hip, and does a 360. “Carrots! You never told me you were staying in the Ritz!“ He grins over his shoulder at her, dropping his box ungracefully onto the desk.

“Oh, I didn’t want to make you jealous. The fleas are complimentary, can you believe?” Judy jumps a little as from below, there is a muffled thud, and then the unmistakable (albeit unintelligible) sound of Pronk and Bucky yelling at the top of their lungs. “God, this is _two floors up,_ I didn’t think their voices would carry this far.”

“I’m sure I’ll get used to it.” Nick extracts all the shirts and ties he owns, rolled into a ball, and stuffs them into a drawer; by contrast, an ratty throw pillow covered in a pineapple pattern is laid lovingly on top of the duvet. “Besides, I like the idea of being practically-neighbors with you. Just two floors up, like you said. Hey, we can have burger night!”

Judy rolls her eyes. “Biology still counts for some things, Nick.” She kneels on the floor and opens the flap of the second box. Then she blinks, because inside the box is a layer of books.

There aren’t very many, about nine or ten in all, and they have yellow pages and tattered dust jackets—clearly stuff that the public library tossed out. But it’s obvious they were packed carefully on top of the other things, so Judy takes the books out one by one and sets them neatly on the floor beside her. “You’ve got a pretty good collection here,” she remarks, running her paw over the embossed text on one of the covers. John Grizzham’s _The Pelican Brief._

“Huh? Oh, those.” Nick hangs his uniform up in the closet and brushes a few doughnut sprinkles off the lapel. “I use ‘em as toilet paper.”

Judy drops the book.

“You should see your face,” he snickers, shutting the closet door, which promptly pops its top two hinges and half-falls on top of him. “Ow.”

“Sorry, it’s just, I didn’t think you were the kind of person who liked to r—“ Then Judy bites her tongue, because there she goes again, subscribing to exactly the kind of stereotype she’s trying to eradicate. _Stupid._

But Nick doesn’t even blink. “I like cracking open a good thriller every now and then. You know, when I’m not too busy living one,” he says lightly, putting his back against the sagging closet door. “You a big reader, Shortstop? Not that it matters either way, but just _don’t_ tell me you’re into those godawful vampire bat books. If you are, I swear I’m putting in a request for a new partner.” Judy chucks the pineapple pillow at him, hard, and the closet door gives up completely, leaving Nick in a groaning heap on the floor.

The next time Judy goes home to visit, she collects all the detective novels she read as a teen that are gathering dust on her bookshelf, and brings them back to the city in a box for Nick. He’s not a fast reader, but he works his way steadily through all of them, laying his theories out for her during their lunch breaks. Perhaps not surprisingly, he’s extremely good at figuring out who the killer is before the ending.

(On a whim, Judy also gives him the aforementioned godawful vampire bat books, and even though Nick makes fun of her trashy reading habits, it’s not a week before he’s already demanding to know whether the bats go to war with the flying squirrels in the final volume.)

(There’s still so much she doesn’t know about him.)

 

\--

 

_4\. washing off_

Chasing a guilty candy connoisseur through his factory is making for a more exciting Monday than most.

Swirling clouds of stray cotton candy wisps fill the air, covering everything in a faint pink haze. Nick slaloms around the shrieking workers and the conveyor belts, which are trundling along with their small loads of chocolate and caramel, and tries to keep the black lemur in his sights. He doesn’t need to look to know that Judy is no more than a few feet away in hot pursuit, weaving through legs and bounding off machines. Taking a deep breath, he barks, “Macacao! For the last time, stop in the name of the law!”

He will _never_ get tired of saying that.

The way clears as they approach the back door, and suddenly Judy shoots ahead. Nick sees her dive for Macacao’s feet, but then a worker carrying a giant vat stumbles right into her path, and he reaches for her and tries to shout a warning. Too late. The grizzly trips, bellowing in surprise, and the dark liquid inside the vat is upended all over Judy.

“Carrots!” Nick skids to a halt, but Judy spits and shakes her head furiously, sending thick brown droplets flying.

“I’m fine! Go!” she shouts.

Macacao’s already flung the back door open, but Nick is not going to be too slow this time. Throwing himself forward, he tackles the lemur to the floor. They roll over and over until Nick’s arm is locked firmly around Macacao’s neck, the lemur howling in protest even as the sirens sound outside.

After Swinton and Fangmeyer have cuffed and charged Macacao (guilty of importing live millipedes without a permit—definitely one they’ve never heard before) and led him into the cruiser as he’s chittering _stupid fox, you’re going to pay for this—_ Nick takes one look at his partner, who is covered ear to toe in molasses, and immediately doubles over with laughter.

“You know Brer Rabbit and the tar baby?” he hoots, when he’s managed to get enough breath back to speak. “That’s you right now.” For his wit, Nick is rewarded with a glare that could roast marshmallows.

He trails after Judy into one of the factory’s dingy unisex bathrooms, as she’s muttering about not being able to report back to the Chief looking like a toddler who got into the kitchen cupboard. “And don’t follow me I don’t need your _help,”_ Judy ends indignantly, as she climbs onto the counter and turns on the faucet, scrubbing at her forearm. Globs of molasses slough off her fur and into the grubby basin.

“Aw, c’mon, I’m pretty sure there are some spots on your back you won’t be able to reach.” Nick reaches into his pocket for his handkerchief and runs it under the tap.

Judy looks like she’s going to protest, but then she presses her lips together and says nothing—merely continues to wash her forepaws, while turning slightly so her back is facing him.

Squeezing the wet handkerchief out, Nick realizes that now he’s committed to this thing, he doesn’t actually quite know what to do. He tries to think _it’s just like wiping down the counters at Chez Cheese, no sweat,_ and decidedly tries not to think _shit shit shit shit._ Most of Judy’s fur is already matted with the thick syrup, so he gently swipes the handkerchief over the worst areas—the side of her face, the span of her shoulders. “What _is_ molasses, anyway?” he asks, just to break the silence.

“Refined sugarcane,” Judy says through her teeth. She flicks her ears forward and begins scrubbing at them too, shuddering at the dark goop that rinses out. “Or sugar beets.”

“Well, I know which vegetables from Mama Hopps’ care package are going untouched this month.” Nick can see he’s not applying enough pressure to make a difference, so he says, “Brace yourself for a sec, okay, Easter?” and holds onto one of Judy’s shoulders to steady her as he scrubs harder at the molasses clinging to her fur. Stubborn brown giving way to soft heather gray, almost ghostly white in the harsh fluorescent light.

“I’m going to have to shave it all off,” Judy says grimly, turning her head from side to side and frowning at her reflection. “Just go to a salon and take a razor to it.”

“I’m sure you’ll be pretty even when you’re completely bald,” Nick replies solemnly. He can see her tight, sardonic smile in the mirror as she reaches back and punches him in the shoulder.

The bathroom is uncomfortably warm and humid, but sitting on top of all the far-less-pleasant smells is the heavy scent of sugar. His mouth is still full of it, flyaway cotton candy feathers melted into pure sweetness, _and it must be doing something to my head,_ Nick thinks, blinking, because he suddenly can’t think of anything else to say. Overhead, the broken light fixture flickers, so for seconds at a time they’re alone in the dark, just the two of them and the steady trickle of water in the basin.

Maybe it’s his imagination, but when he touches the back of her neck, she shivers.

 

\--

 

_5\. cleaning up_

It’s Judy’s second time attending the annual Zootopia Police Gala, but Nick’s first. She waits by the door of the ballroom, winking at the other officers as they file in with their dates. (Swinton’s brought her new boyfriend, who is even more handsome than he appears in the photos on her desk; and after about two weeks of furtive whisper-arguing in the office, Wolford and Delgato are finally attending together, holding each other’s paws and not looking at each other in their embarrassment.)

In the growing crowd, she almost misses him. He’s wearing a midnight-blue suit and a nervous expression, both brand-new, and it makes something in her chest twist and untwist. “Looks like someone knows how to clean up, after all,” Judy remarks, folding her arms and grinning. “If only you could do as good a job on your desk.”

“Aw, thanks, Carrots. And you look..” Nick makes a vague, sweeping gesture towards her black dress with the asymetrically cut hem, and there’s that look again, like he’s actually lost for words.

“You look absolutely deadly,” he pronounces finally, and Judy takes his arm, and they enter the ballroom together.

After they’ve elbowed each other all the way through the opening speeches, and argued about how much caviar stolen off the edges of the serving plates is too much, it’s time for the actual dancing. Judy’s already promised the first dance to Clawhauser, and she spends the next five minutes trying to hold her dinner down while she stands on his toes and watches the room around her spin.

Then Nick and Francine cut in, so they swap partners. (Francine simply picks Clawhauser up like a baby and carries him away.) The band strikes up a swing number, and Judy grabs Nick’s paws, thinking _what the hell,_ as they launch into a jitterbug that would definitely earn them a ticket on the street.

The officers around them are still clapping and laughing when the band transitions into a slow dance, and before Judy knows it she’s fitted neatly into Nick’s arms, and they’re swaying in the center of the floor. “Well, this is a first,” she says, tipping her head. “You haven’t made a single tasteless joke all night.”

Nick coughs. “Chief Bogo’s fly is open.”

“There we go.” Judy rolls her eyes. “And that’s not even a joke, Nick.”

“I’m not making a joke, I’m stating a fact!” A mischievous grin quirks at the edge of Nick’s mouth. “Go on, look. He’s on your six, dancing with his wife.”

Judy turns her head around. “You are such a lia—oh, sweet cheese and crackers.” Embarrassed, she quickly looks away, her cheek colliding with Nick’s chest in her hurry. He cackles quietly into her ear. “How can Mrs. Bogo not _notice?”_

“Maybe Mrs. Bogo likes it.” Judy can _feel_ Nick smiling; he still hasn’t pulled away. She realizes, maybe for the first time, how much taller he is, and that pulls a lot of other things into sudden, sharp focus.

“Next topic of discussion, please.” Judy squeezes her eyes shut and opens them again. He smells like the dry-cleaners’ and too much cologne and it reminds her all over again, how hard he’s tried. Is trying. “I didn’t know you could dance so well.”

“That’s why they call it a foxtrot, sugar.” Nick angles himself and hip-checks her gently. “I was a _beast_ at prom, you should’ve seen me.”

Judy bops him back, a little harder. “Don’t you ever get tired?” she asks.

“Of what?”

Judy falters, because she hadn’t really meant for the question to come out. “You know… this banter thing.” She swallows. “I mean, we almost never have a conversation that doesn’t go sideways, and you have about a dozen nicknames for me because you like pretending you don’t know my real name, and I feel like—like we’ve just made a habit out of picking on each other because it’s the only thing we know how to do.” She’s out of breath now.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Well, what would you rather we do, Carrots?”

“I don’t—I don’t know.” Judy can feel her face burning. The crystal chandelier high above them twinkles softly, and everything is the color of champagne. She drops her arms and pulls back, stepping away from Nick, suddenly feeling like she’s made a terrible mistake. _Stupid lights. Stupid me._

“Jude,” Nick says then, and it’s both strange and not strange, her family nickname, her _oldest_ nickname, coming out of his mouth. Something in his tone finally makes her look back at him, at the face she knows so well, and see something changing in his green eyes. Like the sun shifting behind a cloud, waiting to come back out.

He takes a breath. “Carrots, I—“

And then there’s a sound like a champagne bottle popping, and Judy is wondering where it came from and Nick is frowning faintly, before he looks down to see the red blossoming across the front of his shirt.

And Judy doesn’t understand, Judy is thinking _dammit Nick, what is this, another prank, at the gala in front of everybody, is absolutely nothing sacred to you?_ And then Nick lets his breath go in a clumsy _whuff_ and crumples slowly, slowly forward into her arms, and around her glasses are shattering and people are screaming.

All the others are already leaping over the tables, calling to one another, blocking the exits and racing up the stairs in pursuit of the sniper. And there is one part of Judy’s brain, the part that is a police officer, that is thinking _he’ll try to escape from above so get to the roof;_ and another part of her brain that is calmly registering the fact of a victim bleeding out on the marble floor in front of her, and telling her _airway, breathing, circulation, hold your paws to his stomach until the paramedics arrive_ —but the part of her brain that right now has been pushed to the very surface, the part that knows Nick is her partner and best friend and very possibly the person in the world who makes her feel the most whole, can’t think anything at all, is only screaming _no, please no, no._

 

\--

 

_6\. leaning in_

It’s touch and go for the first twenty-four hours—but after that, Nick’s recovery becomes steady and almost miraculously swift. “You foxes,” the tiger nurse says, shaking his head as he unhooks Nick’s IV bag from the pole and replaces it with a new one. “Always in such a rush.”

The doctors tell him he’s lucky. A few inches higher, and the shot could’ve gone straight through his heart. As it is, it entered dangerously near his spine and scraped the side of his liver on its way out.

The bullet itself is in a matchbox on Nick’s bedside table. He needs to feel like he’s still in control of something.

“Looks like you’ve still got some enemies in the underworld,” Chief Bogo says when he stops by to report their having gotten a confession out of the shooter. He looks both angry and apologetic, which Nick tries to enjoy; he considers taking a photo before figuring he doesn’t need to extend his stay in the hospital any longer. “I wish I could say this is the end of it, but honestly, we don’t know.”

“I know, Chief.” Nick scratches at the area around his cannula.  

The Chief arches an eyebrow. “When you get back on your feet, Officer Wilde, I have a feeling you and I are going to be sitting in my office for quite some time.”

“Believe me, Chief, there is nothing I look forward to more than storytime with you,” Nick replies cheerfully. The Chief grunts before depositing his small bouquet of flowers—half-crushed from being held in his giant hooves—in a glass of water and squeezing back out into the hallway.

On one of his earlier visits, the Chief had also wanted a guard posted outside Nick’s hospital room, but Nick refused, saying, “Chief, as touched as I am by your concern for me, I’d prefer it if the entire ZPD didn’t get a look at my rear end through the open back of this stupid gown. Besides, Carrots practically lives in here now; she’s enough of a guard for me.”

That last part isn’t an exaggeration, either. Ever since he was admitted, Judy’s been by his side, talking to the doctors and checking his temperature every ten minutes for no apparent reason. Despite Nick’s protests, she hasn’t gone home for more than a couple of hours at a time, just ducking out long enough to take a shower or pick up more supplies.

Half of him _really_ wants her to leave.

But when he wakes up in the middle of the night, gasping because the sound of the gun is still echoing in his ears, she’s right there—and just looking over at her, curled up asleep in the chair beside his bed, turns his world right-side up again.

Right now Judy’s out doing a convenience store run, and Nick’s already finished the paperback she brought him a few days ago, so he resigns himself to flicking through the channels on the TV. He’s just settled on an episode of _Downton Tabby_ when the door creaks open, and Judy edges in with a heavy plastic bag in both paws.

“Good news, Slick,” she says, smiling. “I just ran into Dr. Kanzi in the hall, and he said he’s about ninety-five percent sure you can check out on Monday.”

“Thank _god.”_ Nick sighs, slumping back against his pillow. “This hospital’s too damn clean. I haven’t breathed mildew in _weeks.”_

Humming to herself, Judy starts unpacking the contents of the plastic bag—instant vegetable ramen in Styrofoam cups, toilet paper and toothpaste. The last item in the bag she holds up, turning to Nick. “A little whiskey to dull the pain?” she suggests slyly, wiggling the glass bottle back and forth.

Nick extends a claw and presses the button that buzzes the front desk. “Nurse!” he yells. “My partner just snuck alcohol into my room! Call the cops!” Judy swats his paw off the button. “Seriously, though, I’m impressed,” he says in a normal tone. “How’d you get it past the guard?”

Judy smirks as she passes him a plastic cup. “I told him my sister Nikki just gave birth. So if anyone asks, you had septuplets.”

Nick beams back at her. “Oh, well, in that case.” He raises his cup, and Judy taps hers against it. “To the kids,” they chorus, and drink.

While Nick settles back in bed with his whiskey, Judy clambers into her chair and pulls a file folder out of her overnight bag. She stares at the contents for a while, frowning and chewing on the cap of her pen, before furiously scribbling some notes in the margins.

Nick glances sideways. “Whatcha workin’ on?”

“The kids from the middle school are coming by the precinct for their science club field trip, and I’m the one giving the tour.” Judy underlines something twice and flips the page. “Just going over my notes again.”

Nick gazes back up at the TV. The Dowager Cattess is peering into her teacup with her trademark sour-milk face on. “You don’t have to lie to me, you know,” he says.

“What?” Judy drops her pen.

“I know you’re looking at the shooter’s file. You’re investigating my getting sh—what happened to me.” Nick sighs. “Look… I don’t want you worrying about this right now. It can wait, it’s not that big of a deal.”

Judy stares at him. “Of course it’s a big deal. They went after you, Nick, they tried to—to— _assassinate_ you, and if you think I’m just going to sit here—“

“Actually, that’s exactly what I want you to do.” Nick folds his arms.

“Nick—“

“Carrots, I appreciate it, but all your good intentions are driving me up the wall, and I swear on my mother’s grave that if you shuffle one more sheet of paper over there, I will rip out my IV line and tie your paws together with it.” Nick slaps the spot on the bed next to him. “Now get your tail over here and just _relax_ for five minutes. Okay?”

“Your mother’s not even _in_ her grave,” Judy grumbles, but she puts the folder down and carefully climbs onto the hospital bed on Nick’s good side.

For a while, they pass the bottle of whiskey back and forth, their plastic cups sitting forgotten on the side table. Onscreen, the spunky sister is fighting with the snooty sister about her plan to run away and marry the gardener. Outside the window, the sun is setting.

When Judy leans against Nick, she does it so lightly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, that he barely even notices. A quick look down at her tells him she’s already drifting off. “Sorry,” Judy slurs. “Tired. Five min’tes.”

“S’okay, Carrots. You can cuddle with me anytime. I’ll draw you up a license.” Nick’s voice has dropped to such a low whisper, it sounds foreign even to him. He shifts slightly so his arm is half-around her and she’s nestled into his side. ( _Nestled._ He must be out of his mind.)

“’Kay.” Judy sighs happily, her ears drooping against her cheeks. She pulls the blanket up to her chin, murmurs, “Love you,” and closes her eyes, a peaceful smile on her face.

The end credits are rolling on TV, accompanied by a sped-up, obnoxious orchestral suite, but Nick can’t hear anything except his own heartbeat booming in his ears. There are so many things he wants to say—but for now, it’s enough to be here, an empty bottle of whiskey on the floor beside his hospital bed, his arm cramping gently underneath her weight.

He is alive, and she is his constant, and that is more than enough.

Judy’s breathing against the thin fabric of his hospital gown steadies, slows, and Nick taps his fist on hers, half-curled in her lap. “Wilde and Hopps,” he whispers.

“Alphabetical,” Judy murmurs back just before she falls asleep, and Nick answers, yawning and resting his cheek on her temple, “It’ll never catch on.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I didn’t want to delve too too much into the circumstances surrounding Nick’s getting shot, because I wanted to keep this fic semi-light. I don’t know if I want to revisit the idea in the future, but it’s still floating around in the inflatable pool in my brain along with all my other headcanons/AUs, so.
> 
> 2) The scientific name for the black lemur, which irl has something of a drug addiction to millipedes, is Eulemur macaco—so it wasn’t too hard to come up with the surname Macacao for a lemur candymaker. In case you’re interested in that sort of thing!
> 
> 3) In the same vein, Dr. Kanzi is named after Kanzi the “talking” Bonobo ape, who is amaaaazing. Heart eyes


End file.
